


Down the Line

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rescue Mission, ish, pre-winterhawk, sassy shit Clint, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: “Agent Barton?”He debated whether or not to respond to that, but, well, what was the worst that could happen? They started shooting again? Because that was happening, either way.“Santa? Is that you?”There was a single snort of laughter, a growled warning, and then more silence. Clint couldn’t really tell from that how many people were on the other side of the door/wall - that was, he knew without even looking, likely just a flimsy mess of drywall and insulation at that point.“Agent Barton, surrender yourself at once.”“Still waiting on that pony I asked for seventeen years ago, pal. Not surrendering shit until I get it.”Not at all surprisingly, Clint’s ultimatum was met with more gunfire.





	Down the Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Midnighter_dc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnighter_dc/gifts).



> For Mar, wishing you a wonderful birthday and also thank you for always being awesome and kind and generous and also for all of the emojis - you know my weakness and feed them to me.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks Ro for beta reading!!!!!!!! You're the best and so so so good to me!
> 
> \--  
> \--  
> \--  
> \--

The thing was, Clint had been in plenty of shootouts before. Clint had been in three shootouts this  _ week _ . But none of them, not even the clusterfuck that was Budapest, had ever been quite like this.

 

And sure, it was Clint’s fault - when wasn’t it? - because he was the dumb shit who had walked into the Vienna office that morning without checking his email. In his defense, the hostel he had stumbled into at two am that morning hadn’t had service, nor had there been a charger he could lift off one of the other patrons that worked with his fancy-ass Stark phone.

 

Instead, Clint had let himself be led through dull office corridors, put on an elevator and taken up to the seventh floor, and had his ass parked in an empty interrogation room and been told to wait for the section chief to come debrief him. 

 

Ten minutes and some casual flirting later, a young mustached guy had blushingly offered up a fresh cup of coffee, a croeller and his Stark phone charger to Clint.

 

Fed, caffeinated and with a way to charge his phone, Clint had winked and returned to the interrogation room to await his debriefing.

 

He had literally  _ just _ opened up his email when his internet alerts started going off like the heralding of an apocalypse. 

 

Clint liked to think that, unlike some former Russian spies, he kept his paranoia at a healthy level. So, naturally, he had alerts set on his name, all of the Avengers, all of his past clients, victims, associates, dog walker and SHIELD personnel. And sure, four of his neighbors in Bed-Stuy, but that was more for their sake than  _ his _ .

 

He barely had time to process the subject line of Natasha’s email -  _ HYDRA INFILTRATED SHIELD BURN EVERYTHING _ \- before there was a knock on the door.

 

Instinctively, Clint tossed his cup of coffee towards the door as it opened, catching whoever the fuck it was - probably a fucking Nazi - in the face, and shocking him into screaming and jumping backwards.

 

Clint hurdled over him and down the hall and- 

 

And there was definitely a heavily-armed STRIKE team coming from that direction.

 

He turned and ducked down another hall, and then yanked open the first door he found.

 

Breakroom.

 

Fucking-

 

Bullets whizzed past him, barely missing, and Clint dove into the room.

 

So, as often as Clint had been in shootouts, this one became his very first in a  _ Nazi _ breakroom.

 

Clint managed to create a piss-poor but serviceable barricade by shoving chairs and tables against the door, and then yanked the refrigerator power cord out and started to reposition that as well.

 

Then the shooting started in earnest, bullets ripping through the drywall all around him, and Clint yanked open the fridge doors, threw out all of the shelves and drawers, and huddled inside.

 

It was a few minutes of hell later before the gunfire stopped.

 

“Agent Barton?”

 

He debated whether or not to respond to that, but, well, what was the worst that could happen? They started shooting again? Because that was happening, either way.

 

“Santa? Is that you?”

 

There was a single snort of laughter, a growled warning, and then more silence. Clint couldn’t really tell from that how many people were on the other side of the door/wall - that was, he knew without even looking, likely just a flimsy mess of drywall and insulation at that point.

 

“Agent Barton, surrender yourself at once.”

 

“Still waiting on that pony I asked for seventeen years ago, pal. Not surrendering shit until I get it.”

 

Not at all surprisingly, Clint’s ultimatum was met with more gunfire.

 

He couldn’t really tell if the goal was to take him alive or not, because their kind-of over-the-top gunfire seemed like they just wanted him dead. But the command to surrender? Not so much.

 

Also, why weren’t they just throwing a grenade inside and calling it a day? There had to be a hole in the drywall big enough to do that by now.

 

As if they were reading Clint’s mind, a heavy  _ thud _ and the roll of metal on linoleum greeted Clint’s ears.

 

“Fucking  _ shit _ .”

 

He managed to wedge himself inside the fridge and closed the door just in time to realize he was utterly, utterly fucked.

 

Because now he was trapped inside of a fucking refrigerator in a Nazi breakroom, and his only weapon was a bottle of salad dressing.

 

Clint was officially fucked.

 

-o-

 

Actually, Clint found out some time later, he was officially  _ dead _ .

 

They beat him up, which was disappointing but certainly not unexpected. He lost consciousness at some point - too far into the process for his liking - and when he came to, time had passed and likely he had been moved to an entirely different location.

 

He sure as shit wasn’t in a breakroom anymore.

 

Instead, he was in some kind of barred cell or- a bank vault? Definitely a bank vault. His clothes had been stripped off except for his briefs, and Clint made a mental note to maybe start wearing boxers or thermal long-johns or something, because this actually wasn’t the first time this month that he’d woken up stripped down to just his underwear.

 

Clint was also secured in some kind of chair. Something that looked like a psychotic dentist’s idea of a torture device. His wrists and legs were strapped down, and there was some kind of halo thing floating above his head, attached to the back of the chair but far enough above him that Clint couldn’t hit his head against it and knock himself back out again. Unfortunate.

 

He had no idea how much time had passed before he woke up, or how much time passed after he woke up, but eventually, after Clint had worked his way through twenty-seven different elaborate scenarios for how the Nazi breakroom fight could have gone better, a tall, thin man who oozed bureaucratic malevolence walked up to the barred wall separating Clint and his chair from potential freedom.

 

“Agent Barton,” the man crooned.

 

Clint recognized the voice from the earlier firefight, but he didn’t recognize the face.

 

He licked his lips and offered the man a grin.

 

“You wanna know my safeword, or is this the kind of club that only uses the traffic light system?”

 

The thin man’s face remained neutral, and Clint was a little impressed that he didn’t even look annoyed. Instead, he held Clint’s gaze for a few moments and then pulled out his phone. He tapped on it and, a moment later, the cell door slid open.

 

The man stepped inside and approached Clint, stopping several feet away but close enough for Clint to see the screen of the phone when it was held out to him.

 

“It’s an incident report, from yesterday. Unfortunately, you were declared dead at the scene, and your DNA evidence was collected and matched to the SHIELD - sorry, HYDRA - database files. Still getting used to being able to speak freely.” 

 

Clint was only able to scan a few lines - enough to get the gist, and enough to see that it looked exactly like the reports of a similar nature he had read before - before the phone was taken away and put back into the man’s coat pocket.

 

Well, fuck.

 

“So, now that I’m dead, do I finally get that pony?”

 

The thin man’s lips compressed.

 

“The world has entered a new age, Agent Barton, and while I personally find you to be irritating, you are still a valuable asset.”

 

Clint snorted a laugh.

 

“Yeah, about that - there’s no fucking way I’m gonna work for a bunch of Nazis. I don’t care how good your dental plan is, I’ll pass.”

 

The thin man grinned, broad and unsettling.

 

“Oh, but Clint, you’ve already been working for ‘a bunch of Nazis’ for a decade. Ever since you joined SHIELD.”

 

That- that had to be bullshit.

 

Was he supposed to believe that Nick Fury was a Nazi? Maria Hill? Phil Coulson? 

 

The thin man tutted in mock sympathy.

 

“Don’t worry, we’ll include a briefing on our illustrious history once we have you properly programmed.”

 

“Programmed?” Clint echoed. “I’m not a fucking robot.”

 

“No, but you are susceptible to control, aren’t you?”

 

And that- that was enough to send ice through Clint’s veins.

 

“If you’re talking about my obsession with spiced pumpkin lattes, I gotta say, it’s not  _ nearly _ as-”

 

“I’m speaking of the scepter, Agent Barton. Try to keep up.”

 

Yeah. That’s what Clint had been afraid of.

 

But it wasn’t possible for this guy to have it. After Manhattan, Natasha had given it to Fury and-

 

Fuck.

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

SHIELD was HYDRA.

 

The thin man smiled.

 

“And now you see, Agent Barton, just how much we already control you.”

 

Clint glared. He hated himself for not having a snappy comeback, but, well - he’d joined SHIELD because he wanted to try to be a good guy. And SHIELD was…

 

SHIELD was full of fucking Nazis.

 

HYDRA - christ, hadn’t Cap defeated them during World War II?

 

What about - shit. What  _ about _ Cap?

 

And Natasha, who had at least been able to notify Clint of the SHIELD/HYDRA/Nazi bullshit, but that had been at least two days ago and-

 

“Focus, Agent.”

 

The thin man was getting annoying. More annoying.

 

Clint glared at him.

 

“Now, it seems that my superiors don’t consider you a top priority. As such, you’re just going to have to wait here until we have the time to extract you and reacquaint you with the scepter. Try to be a good boy, hm?”

 

Clint wanted to rip his throat out. 

 

-o-

 

They stuck him with an IV the next day, pumped him full of nutrients or something - definitely no painkillers - and ignored all of his shouted requests for a bathroom break.

 

So. That was fun.

 

Not as much fun as day three, when a few STRIKE guys arrived. People Clint vaguely recognized, but who clearly knew  _ him _ \- or, at least, of him - well enough to have some aggression to work out on a guy strapped down to a chair.

 

Day four was long, and dull, and uncomfortable, and painful.

 

Clint had actually fallen asleep, finally, and was floating in a bizarre dream that involved Loki, Coulson and Fury all trying on a pink dress, when a sudden rattling of the barred wall startled him awake.

 

The thin man was back and- 

 

The thin man was back, and he wasn’t alone, and he didn’t look all that happy to be there.

 

Escorting the thin man into the vault, gun aimed at the back of the thin man’s head, was a scruffy-looking guy dressed like a bondage fetishist trying to impersonate a commando.

 

Clint looked from the thin man to the scruffy bondage dude, and then back again.

 

The thin man looked terrified, pale except for a streak of dark blood running from his nose, eyes wide and lips pinched.

 

The scruffy bondage dude looked… weird. Clothing choices aside, his long hair looked like he hadn’t washed it in weeks, yellowed bruises and barely-healed cuts decorated his face, and his blue eyes looked frighteningly empty as he surveyed the room.

 

His cool gaze landed on Clint and examined him for all of a single heartbeat before moving on to continue his assessment of the room.

 

The sound of shouts from down the hall momentarily distracted him.

 

The thin man grinned and started to turn around, but the scruffy bondage guy immediately shot him.

 

Now missing quite a lot of his head, the thin man fell to the ground and the scruffy bondage guy stepped to the side and backed up in a corner, out of sight and range from whoever was shouting down the hall.

 

Clint sucked in a deep breath.

 

Great. Cool.

 

He had no idea what the fuck was going on, but, well, anything was better than being subjected to Loki’s scepter again, right?

 

Four heavily-armed, familiar-looking STRIKE guys came into view.

 

Familiar, because they had been the ones to use Clint’s restrained body as a punching bag.

 

And, of course, the one with a black eye and split lip had been the one to reach into the fridge for Clint after the grenade went off.

 

The STRIKE team hesitantly scanned the room, taking in the dead thin man, Clint still in restraints, and the lack of anywhere else for scruffy bondage guy to have fucked off to.

 

So, Clint did the only thing that made sense.

 

He cut his eyes towards the far corner of the room, just a quick flick of his gaze that- 

 

Yep. The idiots bought it and started to file into the room, all of their focus on the corner of the room Clint had just looked at.

 

Which, unfortunately for them, was the opposite corner of scruffy bondage guy.

 

He took them down just as cleanly and quickly as he had the thin man, but still took the time to kick weapons away from their very, very dead bodies.

 

That accomplished, and the hallway silent, scruffy bondage guy moved towards the computer consoles on one corner of the wall. He put the handgun back into a holster at his waist and gave Clint his back while he started to type.

 

Clint watched him for a moment, wondering what the fuck was going on and what he was supposed to do in this situation? Scruffy bondage guy clearly wasn’t the calvary. Well, not  _ Clint’s _ calvary.

 

But… enemy of my enemy, and all that?

 

“So, uh, you come here often?”

 

At the sound of Clint’s voice, scruffy bondage guy’s fingers hesitated for a second on the keys, but then resumed. He didn’t answer Clint’s question.

 

Clint huffed in annoyance.

 

“Okay. I get it. Playing hard to get. No worries. I like the chase. Hey, speaking of, any chance you’re gonna let me out of this dental torture device?”

 

Still no answer, and this time scruffy bondage guy didn’t even pause in his work.

 

Clint, not an idiot, could guess that that didn’t bode well for him.

 

“Look, I don’t know who you are, or why you’re here. Unless - did, uh, did a certain terrifying Russian redhead send you my way?” Not the smoothest way to ask, but it was, Clint figured, at least a  _ little _ better than just coming out and saying Natasha’s name.

 

Another pause at the keyboard.

 

“Natalia.”

 

Clint hadn’t heard anyone call Natasha that in years. Well, not anyone that Natasha left alive to call her that a second time.

 

Which meant this guy knew her - or, at least, knew  _ of _ her - from her time with the Red Room.

 

Not comforting, but then, Clint was almost naked, bruised and filthy, tied to a chair and surrounded by dead bodies. There wasn’t a whole lot about this situation that was anywhere close to comforting.

 

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Clint agreed, trying to sound casual. “Any chance she sent you to come rescue me?” Even though he asked the question, Clint knew the answer had to be no. Still, implying that it was something she would want might help him. Or make scruffy bondage dude shoot him immediately.

 

No answer, which was better than a bullet to the brainpan, so Clint tried to make himself relax. Or, to at least appear relaxed.

 

Scruffy bondage dude eventually accomplished whatever he wanted to with the computer, because he stepped back, picked up one of the assault rifles from the floor, and shot the console to pieces.

 

And then his cold gaze settled on Clint and the chair.

 

Clint’s attempts to appear relaxed went right out the proverbial window, and he tried to shrink back into the seat as scruffy bondage guy stalked closer.

 

“You talk too much,” the guy said.

 

Clint choked on a laugh.

 

“I,uh, yeah. That’s been said about me before.”

 

Scruffy bondage guy cocked his head to the side, considering.

 

“You’ll be a good distraction,” he decided, and, without any fanfare, pressed a  _ single button _ and all of the restraints holding Clint disengaged.

 

Clint slumped in relief and then sort of rolled out of the chair, entire body protesting at the thought of moving.

 

Scruffy bondage guy didn’t spare him a second glance. Instead, he tossed aside his assault rifle and started ripping the chair apart. With his bare hands.

 

Had Clint not been dangerously dehydrated and a disgusting mess trying to catalog all of his injuries, he might have actually been turned on by how single-mindedly destructive scruffy bondage guy was.

 

Once the chair was nothing more than scattered, twisted parts and a broken stump protruding from the floor, scruffy bondage guy turned back to Clint.

 

His chest was heaving, and there was color in his pale cheeks.

 

“Thanks, been wanting to do that myself since they put me in it,” Clint said.

 

Scruffy bondage guy’s lips twisted into a sneer.

 

“Get in line. Maybe I’ll let you take a swing at the next one.”

 

Clint stared.

 

And then he stared some more.

 

There was… a lot to unpack from those words.

 

“What the fuck do you mean ‘ _ the next one’ _ ?” Clint finally settled on asking first.

 

Scruffy bondage guy’s lips thinned, and he started collecting gear from the corpses. He tossed Clint a handgun.

 

“Can you use this?” he asked, not answering Clint’s question.

 

Clint snorted, amused and insulted.

 

“Can I use this? Pal, buddy, I’m the best marksman in the world. I’m fucking Hawkeye. Yeah. I can use this.”

 

Scruffy bondage guy hesitated, hand on a grenade, and stared at Clint. 

 

“Clint Barton. Agent of SHIELD.”

 

Clint hesitantly nodded.

 

“Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

 

“You’re a threat to HYDRA. My standing orders were to kill you if I could lay the blame elsewhere.”

 

After watching the guy take out five guys and a chair, Clint was in no way happy about that statement. He changed his grip on the gun.

 

“How familiar are you with the SHIELD facility in Macau?” scruffy bondage guy asked, attention once again on corpse-looting.

 

Clint felt a little dizzy.

 

“Uh… I’ve been there a few times. Are we going to address your kill order on me or…? Just kinda let that hang between us to haunt my every breath?”

 

Scruffy bondage guy finished and stood, weapons draped around him like tinsel around a Christmas tree.

 

Again, in other circumstances - ones that didn’t have Clint’s death on the table - Clint would have found the look very attractive.

 

“Are you still a threat to HYDRA?” the guy asked.

 

Clint snorted.

 

“Sure. As soon as I can walk again.”

 

Scruffy bondage guy nodded.

 

“Then I’m not going to kill you.”

 

And just like that, he started walking out of the room.

 

Clint stared after him for all of ten seconds before he groaned, forced himself upright, and hobbled after him.

 

Scruffy bondage guy was waiting for him at the end of the hall.

 

“What, so are we partners now, or something?” Clint asked.

 

Scruffy bondage guy looked him over, gaze critical.

 

“Or something,” he agreed.

 

Clint snorted, and then gestured to one of the guy’s many extra assault rifles.

 

Two were handed over to him, and Clint arranged his arsenal of three weapons as comfortably as he could.

 

Somewhere nearby, people were shouting, and it sounded angry and authoritative enough for Clint to figure it was probably STRIKE reinforcements.

 

“Hey, partner, you got a name?”

 

Scruffy bondage guy hesitated.

 

“Bucky,” he said, the name spoken with something like distaste.

 

“Bucky? What kind of shit- Oh my fucking  _ fuck _ . Are you Bucky Barnes?”

 

Scruffy bondage guy -  _ Bucky _ \- looked at him in shock.

 

“Oh my god, you  _ are _ . Shit. I gotta get your autograph. Do you have any idea- You were my fucking hero when I was a kid. Had your poster in my room before I ran away to join the circus, used to jerk off thinking about- Uh, never mind. Let’s, uh, let’s do the killing Nazis thing.”

 

Bucky - and yeah, it was definitely Bucky Barnes, and Clint had no fucking idea  _ how _ it was Bucky Barnes but he had stared at photos of that face way, way too often to not know it - stared at Clint for another second, and then shook his head.

 

“Sure, partner. We’ll do the Nazi killing thing for now. But later, I want to hear more about this you jerking off thing.”

 

-o-

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
